


Why Stir the Memory

by Runespoor



Category: DCU
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, Identity Issues, Robins meeting, shippy parading as gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-07
Updated: 2011-04-07
Packaged: 2017-10-17 17:25:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/179225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Runespoor/pseuds/Runespoor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim never tried to clone Steph.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Why Stir the Memory

**Author's Note:**

> Post-War Games, pre-Infinite Crisis, AUish. Title from Paul Verlaine's An Exchange of Feelings.

Blüdhaven is different from Gotham.

Tim has known that since before he ever put a foot in the city, from Dick. Dick's mission there was going to be mid-term, but the files automatically updated to the Batcave and the light answers Oracle made to his inquiries had taught Tim that 'mid-term' wasn't a word with much meaning there.

When he'd started visiting Dick he'd had ideas what to expect. Batman thinks that crime doesn't change and criminals are all the same, cowardly and superstitious, and maybe that's the sort of things you need to believe to be Batman.

In Blüdhaven 'crime' and 'law' don't mean the same thing as they do in Gotham. It's not a simple question of history or local traditions. There's a part of Tim, when he works with the police, that's... grateful to Dick in a way that would hurt if he let it out of the shell of steel and kevlar he keeps over the things that would distract him if he let them out.

Captain Rorhbach is familiar from the moment he sees her, twice over: in the way that she reminds Tim of Gotham and Gordon, and in the way that he knows that when she looks at him she's thinking of Nightwing.

It's not unwelcome. It's a look Tim has experienced on a number of occasions since he took the suit. It's different from the other iterations, Tim knows, in that Captain Rohrbach didn't know Dick when he was Robin, but all the same, when she looks at Tim she thinks of Dick.

This is _right_ to the part of Tim he's trying to choke and that, in turn, prompts his reflexes as a detective to question when it became a Pavlovian reaction and what he should do about it, if he should do anything at all. Uneasiness would simply get in the way, so he ignores it and uses the hints of familiarity to facilitate their work.

Sometimes they get too much not to jar with what his instincts expect – two tracks of remembrance superimposing. Analyzing the various ways being in Blüdhaven is different from being in Gotham provides an efficient diversion.

Blüdhaven police nowadays tends toward the efficient and the uncorrupted. Dick has left his mark whether he realized or not.

When Tim watches them work, he wishes he had Batgirl's ability to read people. Then he would know it's not idle fancies that he sees the shape of Dick's hands working at cleaning the force, smoothing the irregularities over.

Even the rookies who've barely heard of Nightwing carry his imprint. It's in how frank they look, in the way they're always doing something; Blüdhaven is still short on cops and it keeps the ones it has always busy, always moving toward something. Tim wonders if Gotham cops have been similarly shaped by Batman, and if he never noticed because he has always known Gotham.

He rarely wonders if Robin has left anything in Gotham, and when he does it's only so he will stop himself from hoping that he will not leave anything _here_.

Every time he takes down a perp, rescues someone, every time a cop or a fireman sees him, they look surprised. Startled. It's a different sort of surprise from the one he's used to from people in Gotham. It says 'what is Robin doing here?'

It's a reality check that isn't, either, unwelcome. Blüdhaven isn't Robin's place.

*  
Dear Diary,

Today I stopped another extortion. The kid couldn't be more than thirteen, and the victim was an elementary school student. I always hate having to deal with juvenile delinquents. I was going out on patrol – I was going to do some surveillance and get a first hand feel of the drug trafficking, they've been rather restless and that always gives a good picture – so it was still early, and I run into the scene around the corner. Well I say 'run into' – run into from above. You know what I mean.

So I interrupted, and that's one elementary school student who got back home with the craziest story to tell tomorrow at school. So much for the 'urban legend' and discretion part, right? I made him swear secrecy, but I'm not holding my breath on how long he's going to hold his tongue.

It's the third similar incident I've put a stop to in a range of two blocks around the place where I'm staying. Sooner or later someone is going to realize that this is way above every statistics, and that'd be a lot of trouble. The best way to avoid it would probably be if the police could make more patrols in the area, I guess.

Anyway, then I went on to do what I had planned. Seems like one of the gangs is going into gun trade, but I have no idea who's behind it so far. I'm going to follow that track until I dig more.

I also stopped a mugging and three car jackings. (Car-jackers suck.)

I ~~didn't run into anyo~~ think I'm going to do ~~alright~~ great! Tomorrow I'm going to go to the library and get a card.

*

Learning to work Blüdhaven is a lonely process. The Robin Tim is doesn't have quite as extensive an experience at being alone as Tim himself does, but he's more than able to pull it off.

Perhaps the task should stump him a little more than it actually does. Robin isn't supposed to do most of his work on his own. Robin isn't supposed to, but if that's what Batman requires from him, Tim has devoted a large portion of his life into shaping himself into what Batman needs.

Tim's files require him to acknowledge that Batman technically sent him to the 'haven with Batgirl, but they have agreed that they would work more effectively on their own. Batman wouldn't deny effectiveness. It's only momentary anyway. When things are – when they have taken a more precise look at the situation in the 'haven, they will be able to combine their efforts all the more effectively.

Tim rereads the notes in his files, notices he has repeated the word 'effective' thrice in a couple of lines, presses his lips together and reworks the sentence.

There is a lot to be done as far as files are concerned; Tim isn't, perhaps, as fastidious as Bruce – and Tim can never refrain the memory flashing through his mind, of finding _those_ files on the Batcomputer, the files Tim had read with a growing sense of horror, the files he hadn't even recognized for Bruce's until Dick had said they were-- _“You mean **Batman** wrote these files?” “No. Not Batman. **Bruce**.”_ Dick's voice had given meaning to something Tim hadn't thought to suspect.

Substance; he had made it real and unavoidable, a truth Tim hadn't known to look for. That _Bruce_ was no less dangerous than Batman, and that Batman wasn't the one Tim didn't know.

And that later, in Bruce's mouth, the words 'real' and 'mine' hadn't necessarily sounded like synonyms for 'Bruce'.

This was the point Tim remembers where it had started becoming more frightening than awesome.

Tim knows he isn't at that stage. And the files need keeping.

Their content isn't built from scratch – he has copies of Batman's archiving of Dick's accounts and the notes he himself used to jot down when he came over for a night – but Blüdhaven has always been a busy town, and recent events have upset its landscape. If Tim was to pick a metaphor, he would compare the 'haven's situation to its harbor and the estuary when the rain's been too strong and the tide is coming it; how the crashing waters dig new, deeper trenches into the polluted mud.

It's only an impression, but Tim notes the comparison all the same, in a section of his files where he writes things down before he lets himself dissect them. The image, Tim judges, is appropriate, and that's all that matters.

Taking the metaphor further, the seaside isn't the natural environment for a Robin and people here know it.

*

Until the last moment, there's only the black depths of an alleyway. And then, when the group has turned the corner and left with the distant echoes of the car's engine and the man stands frozen, staring at the mouth of the alley, colors flash into motion, blinding him for the split second it takes to send him sprawling.

His breath knocked off, one arm folded reflexively around his stomach, he squints up, right hand fumbling for his weapon.

“I wouldn't do that, if I were you.”

Robin stands, the cape thrown back, hand on hip, gold and red and green and white eyes staring down at the thug.

“What the--” the thug is cut off by Robin's foot striking out at the man's wrist. His fingers convulse and the gun drops to the ground. Another kick, and the gun is far out of the man's range. Not that he's lunging after it; he stays on his knees, cradling his throbbing wrist. “Aw, man...”

“I told you not to do that. Didn't you hear?”

“S-sorry,” the thug wheezes. “Wasn't expecting t'see _you_. Aintcha out of your turf, Robin?”

“So are you,” Robin points out. “Since when does the Shark do business with lower Blüdhaven gambling rings?”

The man starts to shake his head, then stops with a wince. “'m not working for the Great White Shark these days. I'm _out_ of Gotham crime for good. Why d'you think I'm here? I got out while I still could. I tell you, that city's gone insane. Well, more than usual,” he amends. “But you prob'ly know that, right? Prob'ly why you're here, even,” he grimaces again. “Just my luck.”

Robin listens to his recriminations. The criminals aren't usually that talkative, and Robin knows better than not to take advantage of a good thing.

“Why don't you just get clean?” Robin finally asks, in a tone that's either politely amused either disillusioned, and most likely both.

The man snorts. “With my rap sheet? I got child support to pay, y'know, and she'd just love to get an excuse not to let me see my kid. And he's getting big, getting real busy with friends and girls and tons of things that are a thousand times cooler than his ol' dad, y'know what I mean? So I figure, the least I can do is get him nice things to remember me by, even if we don't see each other often, right? He's gettin' real big,” he repeats, “startin' high school this year. So of course he doesn't have much time for--”

“I get the picture,” Robin cuts him off. There's a moment of silence during which Robin desperately avoids looking straight at the man. He's still holding his wrist, anyway, and the curve of his shoulders show that he's not planning to fight back any time soon.

“That hurt kind of a lot, kid,” the man remarks after a while. “Mebbe you broke my wrist.” He makes it sound like a question, more than an accusation.

“No.” The kick was controlled, precise, and caused none of the snap of bones giving way. “I didn't. Who are you working for, then?”

The thug gives a small sigh. It ends with his shoulders hunching lower, like in defeat. “Now, you know I can't tell you that.”

Robin flashes a blade-bright grin. Robin's smiles are never reassuring to crooks. It's one of those things; there's something about the happiness of a kid quipping puns in the midst of blood and gunshots and violence that makes criminals uncomfortable. In part it's because it's a smile that's backed up by a shadow-grim partner.

“Why don't we say I've already threatened you and you said no and I've kicked you in the ribs already? Or the wrist again, if you think that's more persuasive.” Robin shrugs. “So, who're you working for?”

And the man seems to hesitate again for a minute.

“C'mon,” Robin coaxes, “I could get it from anyone from the lower 'haven. I just want to hear it from you.”

The man steals a glance at Robin. The grin is still there – fixed and, yes, more than a little worrying. He stares at the rows of perfect white glinting teeth and... deflates.

“Okay, you win. Just so you know, I'm only telling you because it's not a secret, anyway. And also because I know you, Robin. But you gotta keep in mind – this ain't Gotham, and the guys here, they're not gonna be scared if it's not your boss or the guy they've got here, y'know what I mean? I'm telling you that as a favor, you understand, as a fellow refugee from Gotham to another.” He sighs again. “I'm here because Gotham, y'know, she's gone insane. But... The 'haven's just not the same, man. Not the same.”

 _I know_ , Robin doesn't answer.

*

He gets the name he wants, and if it doesn't fit in what he's managed to uncover so far, at least it's one lead he can strike from his mental map. The evening hasn't been wasted.

Once he's done, before he takes his grapple from his belt and flies off, he takes a breath and looks at the sky. The night is smudged with the same dirty fumes as in Gotham. Light signals have always been easier to see in Gotham than stars.

The pause he makes lasts only for a fraction of second, so Tim manages to convince himself that he wasn't waiting for someone to leap from the roof with a winning shout.

Robin dismisses the expectation that he should be watched, and takes to the darkness again.

*

Dear Diary,

Yesterday night I had a run-in with the police. 'Urban legend' is a fail, strike two. In my defense: hostage situation!

I mean, not that it started like that. But there were two morons who decided they were going to crash the drugstore without checking if there were cops around and there were. Just around the corner there was a car with two cops on their patrol, and that was so totally dumb it made me miss Gotham big time. Because I know what they say about Gotham crooks, but at least our guys aren't stupid. Then again this is Blüdhaven, and that sort of thing used to fly all the time here. I guess they must have forgot that the times, they have been a-changing in the 'haven, and now cops are clean and hardworking – or as much as they ever get.

How do you forget something like that? Like I said: stupid.

They go in, and they start waving guns around, but they're not all that used to it – three guys who must have been my age, it made me so angry – so there was a kid who managed to slip out and the cops saw him, plus there was shouting inside, so they were in front of the store and they'd already called for back-up when I showed up.

If I'd been in Gotham I'd have done it without getting seen by the cops – hopefully – and even if they'd seen it wouldn't have mattered, they're used to us, but here we're not the guy they're used to. ~~I don't~~ ~~Nightw~~ And there was a child inside, I didn't want to rush in if there was a risk of her screaming, because then the cops might have decided to go in all gung-ho and stuff. (They're mostly clean, but they're also mostly run down with all they've got to do. Blüdhaven doesn't have the same freak crime peaks as Gotham to worry about, but their normal crime rates must be about equal, so...)

It's not easy, balancing all the stuff you've got to deal with to get the cops to trust you. I mean me. When I say “all the stuff”, yesterday it meant this: “Hi, I'm a teenage crime-fighter you've only heard about as sort of an urban legend if I've been doing my job right, and also not in this town and with much contradicting rumors, but not only am I the real deal I am also much more competent that anyone who's not a cape would have you believe, and I am your best shot at taking care of the situation, and I am totally trustworthy and don't mind my manners, it's nothing personal.”

Superman doesn't have to worry about this stuff.

And “no no Batman's not here, but you don't need Batman because here I am. Did I manage to convince you that I am extremely competent and supremely trust-worthy?” (Good police, by the way. I could tell they did not like the idea of a vigilante/teenage crime-fighter in their streets down my job, but since there were innocent lives at stake they weren't willing to waste time arguing. Seems like the costume packs enough to warrant some automatic respect, I can't tell you how nice it is. Not sure if it's the Batman-aura or the Nightwing-legacy, but I could get used to it.)

They agreed to give me five minutes, which we all knew was too short if they wanted me to deal with the situation carefully and much too long to keep anything horrible from happening, but I guess that was the most they could give me.

Sneaking in was easy – ~~not as easy as~~ I went through the basement's window, which no-one was watching over because there was one guy threatening the cashier, one standing by the front door, and the last one striding menacingly between the back door and down the aisles and no-one was expecting someone to slip through an overture that, to most people, looks barely big enough to let in a  cat.

One of the biggest perks of this job is the spontaneous opportunities to practice my flexibility, don't believe anyone who tells you otherwise.

That begged the question of how Batman would've done it if he'd been the one trying to fit in, since my torso is about as big as his thigh, but I guess that's one of the perks of being Batman; being Batman, he'd have found a way. Thinking about it got me through the window, anyway.

After that I'd thought I was going to wait until the guy who should-have-been-watching-the-back-but-was-really-bellowing-at-the-customers-because-it-was-obvious-he-had-totally-not-expected-to-encounter-cops wasn't looking at the door, and slip up to the front of the shop, and I was going to pseudo-negotiate with 'rangs. I didn't think I was going to have it wrapped up in three minutes and half, so the 'rang part was crucial.

In fact, it was easier than that; the guy who was walking around had his safety very much on, and I wasn't the only one who'd noticed, so by the time I'd got the drop on the guy facing the cashier and the gun off the guy by the main door, there was a guy who'd taken the last one down. He must've been about my age, too, so that was nice.

I didn't exactly stick around since everything was in check, but I looked at the time when I was out, and it turns out the cops gave me one minute more. It was almost as good as knowing that no-one had got hurt.

I had to leave my groceries behind, though, so it's another night where I'm going to eat pasta. I was getting tired of pasta, dammit.

*

Beyond patrol and getting knowledge of Blüdhaven, there's not much for Tim to do. A lot for Robin, but nowadays it doesn't mean the same thing as it used to.

Nowadays Tim is Robin – it's the first time in his life he's ever been Robin so fully – but Robin is less Tim than he's been in a long time. Tim doesn't like thinking about that.

The first thing to think about would be acknowledging that Robin is more than just a _he_ these days, and maybe that's always the way it will be from now on. Tim has already done his part of carrying other people beside himself, and Jason-in-Robin has grown a lighter weight for years. Now he's had another way of being Robin, Tim never expected he might one day go back to feeling like the shadow his body casts when in the suit doesn't belong to him.

If he's honest with himself, it's a worst feeling now than it ever used to be.

Tim's a consummate liar.

*

There aren't enough hours in the day for everything Robin has to work on, and of all his chores taking calls and reporting to Batman feel the most time-wasting. Lying to Batman comes with the ease of tasks done too often to count, honed to some perfect, inhuman mechanic that falls into place like a move in a kata.

Robin is partially a living armor of accumulated experiences, and Tim conjectures if this is to be his thread in the fabric they've made, if the Robin who comes after will find it, another standard, another expectation, another gift of familiarity to be achieved when Robin most needs it. He speculates if other Robins feel past Robins the way he has – the way he still does, the way he's always done. He never was Robin out of nothingness, if such a thing is even possible. Robin is bigger than a person.

Putting the phone back down, he wonders what Robin has gained since the time they parted ways.

Professional instincts that were drilled into him too long ago to bother pondering about take him to the police station that night. In Gotham, crossing paths with the police never required a visit to Commissioner Gordon, but here, and now, Robin judges it safer to let Captain Rohrbach know his involvement.

*

Commissioner Gordon might have been able to feel Robin's arrival, but Captain Rohrbach is still new at dealing with vigilantes. She doesn't notice anything until Robin steps out of the shadows of her office.

Nightwing must have accustomed her to this, though, since her biggest reaction after the initial double-take is a sigh.

“I don't know who raised you kids, I really don't...”

It's the rhetorical mumble of someone who's trying really hard not to imagine Batman in charge of raising children. Robin's mouth widens a fraction.

She puts her mug of coffee down on her desk. It looks merely warm, which confirms Robin's impression that she's been spending a lot of time in the squad room, putting up the work of a detective on top of that of a captain. Recruitment has been so vast some of the rookies have had to be partnered together, and that means keeping much more of an eye on them than usual – the term “mother hen” comes to mind, but Robin knows well enough to recognize free association at work.

“I suppose if you're here it's not a social call. So let's get this over with. Another of Gotham's freaks decided to make a grab for this town?”

She sounds tired, tense; like she's already making calculations in her head, how many people she's going to be able to spare on this new danger, how much more she'll have to stretch her resources, how many slips – bad decisions, injuries, worse – are liable to be caused by the exhaustion breathing down their necks.

“Closest thing to a social call, actually,” Robin admits. “Don't know if you heard about it, but I had a run-in with two of your men yesterday on Woolrich Avenue.”

“I heard.” She takes a sip, without taking her eyes off Robin. “And you came all the way here just to tell me this?”

Robin almost smiles. Of all the expressions to stop short of while letting through the intention, this is one of the easiest. “For all you know, I might be living in the next building.”

She's not smiling. “But you don't.”

It's an order as much as an affirmation. If Robin cared to dig into it, there would be a lot to be learned. Captain Rohrbach is a cop, she knows how interrogations work, and she's chosen to give Robin this.

“I wanted to tell you myself.”

“Why? You thought that the department hasn't been cleaned well enough and they'd hide it from me, or that I'd believe my men would make that up? Or that we had ourselves another minor fighting crime without a bulletproof vest?”

Robin lets the cape shift, calling attention to its weight. “There's kevlar in the uniform.”

“Among others, I hope,” she says mildly. “You haven't answered my question. Since you're going to pop in uninvited without regards to the fact that anyone could come in and see you, the least you could do is make yourself clear.”

“It's the first time we've crossed paths, your men and I; like you said, telling you myself is a waste of time. I wanted to let you know I'm not going to do this every time.”

She glares. It's becoming increasingly certain that Captain Rohrbach doesn't like Robin. “Fair enough. I still expect to hear from you if your... contacts... hear about Arkham inmates trying to wrestle into Blüdhaven. It may seem as if our problems are less unmanageable today as they were a year ago, but the last thing we need is a freak with a grudge following you here.”

Robin's head tilts in acquiescence. “If that happens, you'll probably hear from _him_.”

Her mouth twists like she wants to say something hurtful and she stares sideways at the family photograph on her desk, as if she's not seeing it. For several moments, she doesn't speak.

“Have you heard anything from Nightwing?”

The room is empty already when she asks, so Robin doesn't have to let her have the last word.

*

It's a mugging that calls Robin's intervention next, as is too often the case. Just the one guy threatening a girl, and when Robin drops down into the alley she's breathing fast – she must have raced to get away from the man, but she was so panicked she didn't watch where she was going, and her misfortune led her straight into a dead end.

Taking the man down doesn't require a thought, one well-placed kick and two bo jabs and he crumples with barely a groan, and Robin turns to the victim. “It's alright now.”

She doesn't look alright; she's still shocked, clinging to her bag as if it's a shield in front of her, her eyes wide and afraid. She can't be more than sixteen. Given her clothes – clean jeans and a wool jacket a bit too heavy for the season – and the lack of make-up, she wasn't going to spend her night on the streets.

“Is there someone home you can call?”

She blinks as if she's trying to make sense of the question. Good; it means she's interacting with more than the scenario in her mind. Sometimes Robin showing up and stopping the attack is enough to break the person out of their stupor, but not always.

“Y-yeah. My mom. I-I was just going home after my baby-sitting and-- oh god, oh god,” she chokes. “I could have – he was _looking_ at me – god.” She's trembling.

Robin nods. “I'm going to call the police. Call your mom, tell her to come wait with you. Do you live far from here?”

Probably not, otherwise she wouldn't be walking home, but the questions matter less than getting her to talk. Her fingers jerk on the clasp of her bag before she can open it and take her cell out.

“No, just at the corner of Renfield and Halyard, you know, above the French bakery. ...Mom? It's me.”

The tears start rolling down her cheeks at the same time as the cops pick up the phone, and Robin gets busy with making sure they understand the message and doesn't listen to her conversation. (“It's alright, I'm—I'm with Robin, but—yeah. Yeah. Love you, Mom.”)

“She'll be here in ten,” the girl says after she's closed her phone with a snap and jumped at the noise. She sounds drained.

“I'll wait until she's here,” Robin says.

There's no use in rescuing people if it's to let them be terrified of after dark. Robin exists because streets should be safe for everyone, including brightly-clad children.

Robin makes a point of zip-stripping the man in a way that lets her see Robin do it, lets her hear it, leaves the man's hands in plain view. She shivers less after Robin's done, and Robin listens for the noise of cars pulling up, either the girl's mother or the cops.

“So,” the girl suddenly asks. “You're—you're Robin. You're really Robin, I mean.”

“Yes,” Robin says, and looks up at her expectantly, because lots of people don't believe in Batman and Robin, but that 'really' means something else. There's been a murderer who killed Robin look-alikes after dressing them up recently in Gotham.

“Oh. I-- it's just that my brother lives in Gotham and he said, well, Robin saved his life a few months ago, and he told me Robin was a girl. He said she looked like me,” she says softly, and when she looks down her face gets hidden behind loose, long blond hair. “I guess he was just trying to make me feel better, huh?”

He should say something. It's Robin's job to comfort people. He should ask for her name and tell her _something_.

Instead he looks away from her blinding blondness and waits in silence until her mother shows up.

“Lena? Lena, are you there?”

He slips back into the shade before the girl even answers her mother's call.

*

Dear Diary,

So I went to give Captain Rohrbach my version of the “this is my town” speech, except not really, since it's only really my town because I'm working there, and also I don't envy the vigilante who'd say that to her. Then again, I also can't imagine anyone (and by anyone I pretty much mean me) saying the same to Commissioner Gordon, so anyone's theory of how that conversation went over between the boss and the commish is as good as mine.

Okay, now I'm imagining the discussion between Captain Rohrbach and Batman. No, she'd probably be impressed anyway. I mean, I'm Robin, and sometimes I'm impressed. Between the bouts of frustration and the annoyance and the anxiety and the excitement and the glee that I'm Robin. I'm Robin.

Anyway, so it was more “Hi, I'm going to be working in your town from now on, so please tell your men not to shoot on sight” speech. Hopefully I won't have to worry about the shooting part, but still, good relationships with the police are to be treated with the appropriate respect, as the boss would say.

There was also something else. A kid I saved, they were surprised, I guess, that I was Robin. Not because it's Blüdhaven.

But that's okay, that doesn't matter, they can't take it away from me, that's not going to change, I'm Robin. Robin? Yeah, that's me.

I forgot again to get my library card, but hey – I'm Robin.

*

There's not much for Tim to do, but for some reason his walk takes him closer to the library. It's the end of the afternoon and the sun darts molted rays on the buildings, covering their grays with heavy gold. In Gotham, Tim has learned to savor such offerings. Golden moments are fleeting and all too short-lived, deceitful if you let them. Maybe his memory has painted the truth over, but he remembers pandemonium flooding through the streets of Gotham being preceded by the most perfect respites. Now Tim has learned what to expect.

Maybe it will be the same in Blüdhaven. Tim makes a plan of going out earlier tonight, and keeps on walking with the same leisurely pace. Whatever the 'haven will throw at him, it'll wait for dark.

“Hey, stop – stop him!”

Tim tenses and looks across the street and there's a man running away from the little old lady with her bag tight against his chest, and Tim's already bolting between the cars when he sees a girl catching up with the man. Petite, dark, and--

Running with exactly the same motions as Tim's used to watching across rooftops and in dark alleys. Like she's a bit taller, swinging her arms like she's a bit broader in the shoulder, fast and hurried and closer to angry than to deadly.

The first hit she lands on the guy is a punch that's another person's favorite.

He has to take one step back so he won't get run over by the nearest car.

She jumps to the side when the man tries to shove her out of the way, twisting her neck as if to compensate for-- the weight of a hood, or hair longer than her short black ponytail, and spreading her hands as if she was going to push against the air like it was another hard surface.

Tim's breath catches in his chest, painful like a nerve strike.

Her next kick is-- effective, but not as dangerous as it could be, she always struck out too soon.

And the way she throws the next punch – and that's enough to really stop the guy, he's not going anywhere with his arms wrapped around his middle, curled onto himself – with all of her body, including that jab of the hips that's really not needed, and it makes her a fraction slower if she has to protect against her opponent's reaction.

And it's over, but she still elbows him in the ribs and gives him a kick in the shin, and none of it is any move Cass would use voluntarily.

And when she takes the bag from the man and hands it back to the old lady, she laughs and she moves her weight on her hips and she tosses her head back, and she's exuberant and vivacious and beautiful and she's not being Cass.

The old woman is thanking her profusely, and there's a number of people gathering around them and the wheezing assaulter, filling Tim's hearing with excited chatter and impressed congratulations and someone says he's called the cops. In the middle, Cass is acting more at ease among people than Tim has ever seen her. She shakes her head and laughs, and protests that honest, it was--

No. He's too far to hear her, and she's not facing him. He can't read her lips, and Cass has never been a talker, but--

He knows what she's saying. He knows what she looks like she should be saying.

He flees before giving in to the temptation of coming closer to see if she has the words, as well. He flees because either is too easy to imagine, and too painful to contemplate; and he doesn't want to know if he'd rather hear Steph's tone in Cass' voice, or realize that even Cass can't control her body perfectly enough to bring her back.

*

To say that Tim hasn't been dreaming much since he came to Blüdhaven would be a fallacy. Tim dreams proportionately as much as he ever has. It is however a fact that Tim has been timing his sleeping time so he will not wake up during his REM phase of sleep. He has ample reasons not to want to remember his dreams – whatever they may be.

Of course, Tim has spent far too many years in the superhero business – partner to the World's Greatest Detective – not to know two or twenty things about the best laid plans. He's been expecting it.

“Hey, dummy, wake up.”

He's not so asleep that he doesn't recognize the voice, and so he also recognizes that when he opens his eyes he won't be awake. He's lying on a hard, flat surface, cold like the ground in the Cave; less uncomfortable than a rooftop, though a rooftop might have made more sense in the case of this particular hallucination.

It's all light around him, and there's no floor under him, just light.

All light, and Steph, leaning forward with her hands on her knees to look at him.

He pushes himself on his elbows, blinking twice – his eyelashes meet with no resistance, his lenses must be down – or that's what it would mean if the rules of dreamworld were similar to those he's used to. That's not really a constructive line of thought, though unsurprising. Tim's long come to terms with the fact that his method for coping with-- well, with everything his training as Robin has left him slightly unprepared for, the irrational, the supernatural, and sometimes the merely extra-terrestrial – is to attempt to make it fit the paradigms he is used to. It helps a little less than half the time.

Here, the only good that's likely to come of it is that it allows him to observe her face for a handful more seconds. The bow of her eyebrows. The purse in her lips smoothing into a smile when he sits up. The relief crinkling the corner of her eyes. The playfulness in her expression.

“Oh good. I was wondering what I was going to have to do if you didn't hear me this time. You've never been so hard to wake up before, you know. And it's not as if I get too many chances to do this, you know – you're not getting enough sleep these days, Boy Wonder!”

She's frowning a little as she says it, but she's still-- smiling. Tim finds his own lips twitching.

“Don't make that face at me. That's what I came back to tell you, you know.”

And to think that she had to _come back_ blows the ghost of a smile away like a flutter of smoke erased by the wind.

She-- doesn't look much like a ghost. She's not any more transparent than she ever was, she's not-- her legs and the edge of her clothes aren't diluting in fumes like Secret, and her voice is as clear as if she was truly standing a couple of feet in front of him, without the hint of an echo.

She looks just like he remembers, as vibrant as she ever did, when she'd taken her cowl off on a rooftop – her cheeks just a little bit flushed, and her eyes blue and sparkling, her lips pink and shiny-wet, locks of her hair wriggled out of her ponytail, her breath short with laughter. Tim used to look at her and be reminded of Dick in Barbara's eyes, and Starfire on calendars and in battle, and a few of Jason's pictures on the computer Bruce rarely opens, and the word “glowing”.

She-- maybe she glows a little more than usual right now. Than she used to.

“Steph,” Tim says.

“Yeah, Tim. It's me.” He's not wearing the suit, he suddenly realizes. Steph's in front of him in her Spoiler costume, her face bared, and Tim has Tim Drake's unimpressive geeky clothes. Here and now, he's-- he's not Robin.

It surprises him a little how much he's not surprised.

“And that's the point.”

Steph has her serious voice, almost without anger. If Tim didn't know her as well as he does, maybe he wouldn't hear it at all. She's become good at this, sealing her emotions instead of letting them run all over, channeling them so they'd be her fuel instead of a distraction.

Tim admires that in her. Batman always says that feelings should be reined in, ignored, that for as long as they're working they must not let themselves feel, but Steph has achieved a better way of owning her emotions than Bruce ever did. It's not a struggle Tim can say he understands, not as fully as either of them, but he knows that for Steph, it's not longer a struggle. He's not even sure he could call it a motivation for her. He has no idea how _she_ would call it.

“Dream Steph to Sleepy Tim. Are you hearing me, Tim?”

He blinks at her. “I-- er. Yeah, I am.”

“Well, that's good. 'Cause you really gotta hear me out on this.”

She has a lock of hair curling level to her eye when she's kept her hair in a ponytail all night. He'd forgotten that he remembered that. Now he also remembers how the lock felt when he twined it between his fingers, when they kissed at the end of patrol.

“I'm listening, Steph.”

“I'm in the suit.”

They used to have that conversation. And he wants to reply that she doesn't have her cowl on, but...

“Spoiler,” he rectifies.

“That who I am?” She looks down to herself, pinches her cape between two fingers and twirls around. Tim can't be sure, but he thinks that when she turns, there's-- there are shadows sweeping across her face, that-- make it look like she's wearing a domino mask. “Guess I am!”

When she stops to face him again, she has the Spoiler full-face mask on.

“So who do you think that makes you?”

Robin's throat is dry.

“Steph,” he hears himself plead.

She puts her hands on her hips, even as everything gets darker around them, casting more darkness onto her cape.

“No! You're not getting it,--”

He doesn't hear the rest of what she has to say.

He's organized his sleeping schedule as well as he could, taking into account all the notes he's ever kept on his habits and the most reliable scientific studies, but every plan can fail.

Tim wakes up before he can see if the vanishing figure is Spoiler's, or Robin's, or Steph's.

*

Dear Diary,

Tim writes in his notebook.


End file.
